Darkling I Listen (47 page)

He pulled into the Carlyle drive. Security gate closed, of course. The house sat in the distance, windows dark.

Jack munched an onion ring and listened to the radio squawk. He didn't much like to acknowledge the tickling of sadness that had occasionally afflicted him the last few days. Though he hated
Brandon
with a sick passion, he'd never had a problem with Henry or Bernice. They were good people and obeyed the law. Now Henry was gone, and seeing the house sit there lightless drove home the reality that the old man, who'd been an upstanding and respected Ticky Creek citizen for over sixty years, was gone.

He climbed out of the car, chewing his onion ring, and walked to the intercom. Punched the buzzer. Punched it again. Licked ketchup and grease off his fingers, thinking the jalapeno was a little on the biting side tonight. He walked closer to the wrought-iron gate and stared through it at the house. He stuffed the remainder of the onion ring into his mouth, then caught a couple fence bars in his hands and gave the gate an inquisitive shake.

Nothing wrong here. Hell, houses should be dark by
nine o'clock
. And as far as the intercom
…
hell, Betty and Carlyle were probably in bed already. Doc mentioned that he'd prescribed
Brandon
some powerful sedatives to get him over the rough few days after the
funeral…
And as far as the unanswered phone calls
…
so what? There wasn't a rule written someplace that people had to answer their stupid phones all the time. That was what the ringer switch was for. On if you want to take calls,
Off
if you don't…
Jeezus, so what was he doing here, prancing around in the dark while his Beltbuster and onion rings grew cold? He had a freaking speech to write. How was he supposed to convince a lot of old geezers to reelect him if he wasted his time pandering to Mr. National Treasure?

He walked to the car, hesitated, and looked back. No doubt he was allowing
Dixie
's admonition to get under his skin.
You can bet your sweet butt that
if
somethin' happens to him on your watch, there won't be enough left of you or your career to use as catfish bait on Jim Benton's trotline.

"Ah, to hell with him." Jack dropped into the car and reached for the radio mike. "
Dixie
dispatch, this is Jack. Everythin' appears to be right as goddamn rain at the Carlyle farm. Tell your freakin' caller to get a goddamn life and leave mine alone. Over."

"That's an affirmative, Jack. See you in the mornin'."

"Right." He tossed the mike aside, stared through the dark at the house, the smell of mustard and onions from his cooling Beltbuster making him a little queasy.

*

Ron propped his socked feet on the coffee table and crossed
them at the ankles. He nibbled on a cherry Pop-Tart, his gray eyes fixed on Alyson, who watched him from the kitchen door, a Twinkie in one hand, a diet Dr Pepper in the other. Her eyes felt gritty from crying and lack of sleep. God, she simply couldn't stop crying. She had never been a crier, or one to panic, yet standing there waiting for Ron Peterson to sweet-talk some Medical Board personnel out of information, she felt as if she were unraveling.

"Andrea. What a great name. Anyone ever tell you you have a terrific phone voice? Yeah?
You having
a good day so far, Andrea?" He nodded and smiled and nibbled his Pop-Tart. "Life is definitely too busy. Wouldn't it be nice if we could just take, oh, say, twenty, thirty minutes each day to meditate in a soundproof room, away from deadlines and telephones and traffic? I mean, try dealing with
L.A.
traffic every day of your life. Do you know that the suicide rate is higher in
California
than anyplace else in this country?"

He grinned at Alyson and shrugged, as if to admit that he didn't have a clue about the country's suicide rate, nor did he really care.

"Well, Andrea, I have this problem. My mom in
Texas
is very, very ill, and it's imperative that I hire a home health care specialist as soon as possible. I've had a nice lady apply, but before I make my decision, I want to check out her credentials thoroughly. Betty
Wilson,
says she worked for KC General for ten years, I believe. Right. Good. What about before that, Andrea? What I mean is
,
has she always worked under the name of
Wilson
? Just in case I need to poke a little further into her work history and character references? I know that would take some
digging
, but we're talking about my mom here. Since I can't be in
Texas
with her, I have to feel extremely confident in the background of whomever I hire. Thanks, Andrea. God, you're a doll. Sure, I'll wait."

Alyson sat on the coffee table next to Ron's feet. He poked her with his toe and covered the receiver's mouthpiece with his hand. "Anyone ever tell you that eating a Twinkie in front of a man is asking for trouble?"

She forced a smile. "Seems I can recall a time or two recently when it had that effect on someone."

He laughed and pointed to the employee list beside her. She picked it up and looked it over. Apparently Peterson had narrowed the prospects down substantially. There were no more than a half-dozen names left to contact. Her heart sank.

"Yes, Andrea, I'm here." He grabbed a pencil, then the list from Alyson's hand, nodded, scribbled,
nodded
. "Okay, that's terrific. Hey, thanks, you've been a great help."

Ron hung up the phone just as Alan walked into the room. "Boyd," Ron said. "Her maiden name was Boyd. Betty Boyd."

Alyson briefly closed her eyes, and she did her best to force back the rush of anticipation that made her dizzy. Ron ran his finger down the list. "I'll be damned."

Her heart stopped.

"Heavenly Hands Massage. William Boyd, Masseur to the Stars."

Alan put his hand on Alyson's shoulder. "Let's not get excited yet. It could be a coincidence."

"A coincidence?" Alyson laughed in disbelief. "I don't think so, Alan."

Ron called the number listed. It belonged to one Gerald Duncan—had belonged to him for a year. "So we take a drive to this address; check it out," Ron explained, tossing the remains of his Pop-Tart onto the coffee table. "If nothing else, maybe I'll have Boyd's heavenly hands work on me."

*

The address listed on the employee records was residential.
At some time the shabby stucco one-story had been painted brick red. The color had faded in places, giving it a sickly, washed-out appearance. The house sat back from the street, surrounded by a chain-link fence. High weeds clustered at the base of the fence, along with a scattering of litter. A weathered sign hung on the gate, praying hands flanking
HEAVENLY HANDS MASSAGE.

"Masseur to the Stars, huh?" Alan grinned. "If this is all this dude can manage, I suspect business hasn't been so good lately."

Alyson reached for the door handle.

"Hold your water." Ron shook his head. "One never approaches a potential suspect unless properly prepared."

"What's he going to do," she snapped, "pummel me with his heavenly hands?"

Ron smiled and looked at her through his sunglasses. "If you weren't so cute, I might get annoyed."

She sank back in her seat and chewed her lip.

He slid his hand under his coat, checked his gum as he surveyed the narrow street that was lined bumper to bumper with early model cars. "First thing we have to consider here: this neighborhood. Seven out of ten times you find a business run out of a house in this kind of
neighborhood,
the business is a front for dopers. Or prostitutes. If that's the case, and strangers go marching up to the front door, chances are that fur is going to fly. Good old Boyd isn't going to be happy if he, in a panic, flushes his candy down the john."

Opening the car door, he said, "You two stay here. If anything looks promising, I'll give you a nod."

Alyson watched Peterson walk toward the house, his hands in his pockets in a nonthreatening fashion, his casual interest in the neighborhood far from reflecting the uncertainty he must have been feeling. A pack of German shepherds in the adjacent yard rushed the fence and began barking. The owner of the dogs, a bald, obese man wearing dingy yellow boxer shorts, stepped out on his porch and glared at Ron, then reentered his house without bothering to quiet the animals.

Alyson held her breath as Ron banged on the door.

Alan leaned forward, one arm slung over the back of Alyson's car seat, his face tense.

Ron knocked again, harder. The dogs yapped louder. The fat man came out of his house again, this time holding a beer can.

Sinking back into the seat, Alyson sighed. "I don't know how much more of this I can stand."

"Look on the bright
side,
at least we're making progress."

"Maybe. If Betty Boyd was employed at Kansas City General for ten years, up until two months before moving to Ticky Creek, she was obviously not traipsing around
California
stalking
Brandon
."

"Have you called
Brandon
this morning?"

She nodded. "Nothing. The dispatcher last night assured me that an officer checked the farm and everything was fine. But if I don't reach him by tonight, I'm calling Ruth Threadgill and having her take a run out to the farm."

Ron headed back to the car and disappointment settled in Alyson's chest.

Back in the car, Ron gave Alyson an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We'll come back later. In the meantime, I'll run William Boyd through the Drivers License Bureau and see
if
he's still registered at this address."

*

According to the DLB, William Boyd still resided at that
address. An address cross-reference indicated that the residence was shared by one Thomasina Peacock. Further checks revealed that neither had any history of arrests—not so much as parking tickets.

They returned to the residence twice more through the afternoon. No luck. Alyson continued to call the farm. No answer. By seven that evening, Alyson could barely contain her panic and mounting frustration. She was tempted to contact the Ticky Creek sheriff's office again and suggest that Betty Boyd Wilson might have a connection to Anticipating. Ron explained that without substantial proof to back up such a claim, they wouldn't take her seriously. Alan added that if Betty had ties to Anticipating, the last thing they wanted was to rush in without enough proof to nail her. Obviously, Anticipating was capable of murder. The last thing they wanted to do was corner her.

Dinner was another fast-food meal of burgers and fries. At just after seven they headed one last time to Boyd's residence. A light burned in the window. As Ron climbed out of the car, so did Alyson. Before he could protest, she said, "If I have
to
sit waiting in this car another minute, I'm going to explode. I'm a tabloid reporter, for God's sake. I'm accustomed to ducking when people see me coming."

Alan followed as they approached the house. Ron banged on the door, which was opened so suddenly they jumped back, Ron making an instinctive move toward his pistol. Alan grabbed Alyson and shoved her behind him.

A petite woman in a skirt and blouse flipped on the porch light.

"Thomasina Peacock?" Ron asked, sliding a shield from his pocket and flashing it at her.

"Yes," she replied in a surprisingly deep and cautious voice.

"Ron Peterson. Investigator for the D.A.'s office." Re-pocketing the shield, he smiled. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. We're looking for William Boyd. Is he available?"

"No," she replied with an exasperated roll of her dark eyes.

"Mind telling me when he'll be back?"

"Haven't a clue."

Ron smiled charmingly. "Does he still live here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." She looked beyond Ron to Alyson and Alan, looked Alyson up and down,
then
refocused on Ron. "What's this about? Has he got himself in trouble?"

"Could we step inside and have a word with you? I promise we won't take up much of your time."

She shrugged and turned away. "Suit yourself." The tiny house was cluttered and dimly lit. The air was rank with animal odor. As they followed Thomasina Peacock into the living room off the entrance hall,
a half
-dozen cats scattered, ducking behind the flowered sofa and a lopsided recliner. A macaw screeched from its cage near the window. Beside that was a forty-gallon aquarium.

Thomasina raked newspapers off the sofa and threw them onto a stack,
then
she flopped onto the recliner and crossed her legs. "So, what's this about?"

"William's association with Brandon Carlyle," Ron replied as they sat on the sofa.

"Brandon Carlyle is old news, isn't he? Heard he was off living in
Tibet
or something after he got out of prison."

"William worked for Carlyle?"